The Things They Carried
by snapsandprongsforever
Summary: Grantaire knew he was fucked up. Which is why he doesn't find it all that surprising that he is an abusive relationship. He knows it's abusive, but he doesn't see any way out of it. Until he meets Enjolras, which launches him on the painfully slow journey to self acceptance and even eventual love.
1. God Amongst Men

Grantaire knew he was messed up. It wasn't a secret. Just his childhood would take years of counseling for him to be even close to normal. Between the abusive father, the homelessness after said father had found out that Grantaire liked boys as well as girls, the criminals that had used him when he was just fifteen and fresh faced for their own means without a care for Grantaire's well-being. Perhaps that was why he had rushed headlong into things with Pierre, believing that he had found the first good thing in his life. Pierre had seemed like a dream when Grantaire had met him. Grantaire learned that Pierre also had lost contact with his parents after he came out to them. He didn't seem to mind that Grantaire had a few too many glasses of wine often, that he had bouts of melancholia, that he was belligerent, that he only had a G.E.D. and was talented with a knife in ways that should be disturbing for anyone, let alone a twenty year old boy. Pierre knew about panic attacks and how to handle them. But most importantly, and later he learned this was also the reason Pierre had stayed, he tolerated Grantaire's innate self loathing that he persisted like a dog with a bone. Grantaire had just become an adult, had just gotten himself out of the streets and enrolled in college. Life was not shiny and new, but he had a seed of hope in his chest that seemed to take root as he learned more about Pierre. It wasn't long before they had moved in together and pooled their meager finances.

Grantaire wasn't in love, and he knew it. But he had little proof that love actually existed; in his short life, he had seen too much apathy and hate to account for love. His father abused his mother, there was little love lost between his parents. He had never felt love as a child and hardly expected to. Sometimes he wondered if he was broken, if he had lost the ability to love, or if had just been born that way. Make no mistake, he liked Pierre and their sex was great, but he knew that this wasn't love. He said the words, _I love you_, often enough, trying to make them true through repetition, but to no avail. Pierre said the words as well, but sometimes Grantaire doubted their sincerity as well. Grantaire knew it wasn't love, knew it wasn't healthy, but truly could not see himself finding anyone else that could understand him so well, who could look into his eyes and see the beginnings of a panic attack, who knew when he should hide the razors, who knew what days called for homemade soup and movies. Pierre saw all of Grantaire's flaws and that was already enough pain and humiliation for Grantaire. He knew that he carried emotional baggage, enough for three people, and no one wanted that in a relationship. So he stayed, because he needed someone, and Pierre was his only option. Grantaire wasn't happy, but he was far away from the life of his past, and that's all he truly wanted.

It wasn't until two years into their relationship, that Grantaire received his first blow, that he realized the universe was truly fucked. The world had gradually regained its tarnished appearance around its worn and ragged edges. Looking back, he saw the verbal abuse that he had withstood daily, resulting in his subsequent failure in college and his humble retreat to working as a barista. As he washed his stinging face with cold water, attempting to control his breathing and steady the shaking of his hands on the faucet, he met his eyes in the mirror. They were watery and bloodshot, but beneath the surface he saw his internal weariness, and even deeper, his resignation to his new life. He knew in that moment that he was lost. He could see no way out; he didn't particularly care to. Pierre had apologized profusely and bought him flowers after a dinner at a new restaurant in town that Grantaire hated, but Pierre deemed acceptable because of its high prices. That night, Pierre had been tender and loving, but Grantaire knew. His father had been an abusive, he knew exactly how the cycles of abuse worked. He understood that these periods would become shorter and shorter until he would have no reprieve at all.

It was in the first interim that Grantaire first laid eyes on Enjolras. They were loosely introduced via friend of a friend, but Grantaire had caught sight of him weeks before that happy event. He had come into the cafe where he worked, had ordered coffee and left. Grantaire hadn't been at the counter when this apparition ordered coffee. He was conflicted about this: on the one hand, he would never see the man again, would never hear his voice or gaze into his eyes, on the other, if he had the opportunity to gaze into the man's eyes, he would have surely forgotten how function. For the first time in years, his fingers itched with the desire to pick up a paintbrush, to brush those golden curls on to a canvas, to reimagine this divine being that appeared to have stepped out of one of Michelangelo's paintings, with marble skin and soft curls. The itch started in his fingers and made its way towards his chest, a sickeningly rapid journey that left his body on fire and a troubling ache in his chest as the itch persisted. In that moment, Grantaire knew that his situation had just sucked him in too deep; he was in over his head.

Pierre was quiet that night. That was to be expected. They were still recovering from the blow that Grantaire had received and Pierre was tiptoeing around Grantaire; he had a higher chance of keeping Grantaire forever if he lengthened the period between the first two blows as long as he could. Normally, Grantaire would enjoy the silence, less negative comments about his cooking and his hair and no slight digs on his exercise schedule. Tonight, it allowed his mind to wander to the mysterious man in the cafe earlier. He didn't want to think of him in front of Pierre. Not only did he run the risk of Pierre discovering his rather embarrassing devotion to a man he had only seen, Grantaire did not want to contaminate this man by comparing him to Pierre, by bringing Pierre closer to this man who could have hung the heavens. Grantaire's teeth were on edge, and his shoulders taught with tension. Each scrape of silverware and exhale of breath from Pierre heightened his terrified heartbeat and put yet another brick of distrustfulness on his defenses. By the end of the night, he was glad to have the excuse to go to bed, to escape Pierre's inquisitive gaze. As he lay next to Pierre, he deepened his breathing, pretending to sleep beside this man that was a stranger to him. He didn't dare move, afraid that Pierre would find his actions suspicious and tear the truth out of Grantaire. The next morning he got up. He hadn't slept a wink, yet he never remembered feeling so alive.

The weeks passed and Grantaire saw him twice more. He didn't speak to him either time, though he witnessed the attempted flirtations by the barista and the curt replies in a voice that wasn't as deep as he expected, but contained its own lilt and unique phrasing that so pleased the ear, that one wished that he would never cease talking. Of course, his phrases were usually about his coffee order and the weather, but to Grantaire they could have been exhortations on umbrellas and he would find it the most fascinating thing he had ever heard. Grantaire resigned himself to the hopeless odds ahead of him. This man was surely already taken, probably not even interested in men, and he only came for coffee once every few weeks. The odds were that they would eventually have a conversation, but that it would be about his order and nothing more. This was perhaps the cruelest scenario that Grantaire could see Fate pulling on him because he would inevitably read into ever gesture and nuance of the conversation and it would leave him broadsided and dazed. Yet he resigned himself to the fact that the odds pointed to an interaction between the two, and soon.

At home, things were still running smoothly. Pierre was as gentle as ever in the weeks after the initial blow. Grantaire began to relax in his presence. He knew it would happen again, knew that he should be running far from Pierre, but he had no other life besides him. He didn't have many friends- Bahorel, with whom he went to the gym, Bossuet, who was extremely unlucky and therefore was a fine companion to him, and Joly, who had been introduced to him via Bossuet and who always fussed over Grantaire despite his health. He couldn't ask them to give up their lives to take care of him as he recovered, couldn't burden them with Pierre's wrath. Besides, things were going well, they truly were. Pierre had actually complimented his cooking the other night and things were normal again. The tension in Grantaire's muscles eased and he found himself laughing with Bahorel in a way that he hadn't been free to do in weeks after a particularly grueling boxing session.

The next day he found himself whistling as he wiped off the counter during a lull in customers. The bell tinkled and a gust of chilly air entered the shop; a shiver worked its way down Grantaire's spine. "Be right with you," he called, heading back to put the rag in the back room and turned to see the lonely customer standing at the counter. It was Apollo. Of course, Grantaire knew that it wasn't truly Apollo, but as he didn't know his name he had taken to calling him Apollo in his head. He was wearing a blazing red pea coat and tight skinny jeans, that Grantaire immediately tore his eyes from because ogling the customers was not only against the rules, it was highly embarrassing to both parties. And Grantaire was not embarrassing. He was smooth. Even if those golden curls looked soft to touch. Grantaire gathered himself and straightened his spine, making his way to the counter. The man locked eyes with him and Grantaire's breath hitched. He had known, of course, that his eyes were a cerulean blue, had seen that before, but he had never had them meet his. Grantaire didn't think he had ever been under such an intense focus and the thought of what this man was seeing made his hands tremble slightly. He hadn't shaved this morning, and he couldn't even remember if he brushed his hair, and he was sure that his tattoo was peeking out from this t-shirt; it had shorter sleeves than the ones he usually wore to work. He made it to the counter by some miracle and managed to sound vaguely normal when he said "How can I help you?"

"I'd like an espresso with two extra shots, please." Grantaire already knew that was his order, but he could hardly admit to that without seriously creeping this guy out. So instead, he lifted a single eyebrow as he looked the man over. Which was a mistake, because his mouth went dry at the delicately sculpted collarbone that peeked out at him from underneath the also tight v-neck shirt.

"Two extra shots? Not sleeping well?" Of course, Grantaire had to go put his foot in his mouth by asking personal health questions to this god descended to earth in what was likely to be their only conversation. Mentally, Grantaire kicked himself, tearing his eyes from the collarbone to the man's face, which could have actually made the situation worse. _How was it humanly possible to have such sculpted cheekbones?_

"No, actually, I just have a lot to do." His tone was brisk, but he didn't seem as curt as he had with the other baristas. Grantaire detected a slight wrinkling of his eyes and was slightly encouraged. Of course, Grantaire countered internally, Grantaire would take any kind of neutral action from this man to be affection, he was that far gone. He tried to take deep breaths through his nose, hoping that the blonde would not notice he was close to passing out from hyperventilation. Now would be the worst time for a panic attack.

"Really? Saving the world? Hanging the stars, Apollo? How very noble of you." Grantaire grinned, because if he was going to fuck this up, he was going to do it royally, so that there was no chance of it coming back to haunt him later. He watched a flash of irritation cross the blonde's face. Apparently, he had hit a sore spot. Grantaire wasn't sure what exactly about his statement had made the other man squirm, but it was a rather enjoyable show to watch. He could almost see him squirming beneath him as he put his tongue-Grantaire flushed.

"Just because I run a far left social justice group doesn't mean I plan on saving the world. The idea that one person has to save the world is inherently damaging to society because they don't understand the power that the people hold, and they are therefore exploited-wait what did you call me?" He looked as if he had received cold water to the face. It was clear that he had gone on this impromptu speech several times before, he had it down by rote. Apparently, no one had interrupted him before.

"Apollo." Grantaire answered, leaning his hip against the counter. He was rather enjoying getting reactions out of this man, it was like drawing a wild card. One never knew what the result would be. "Why?"

"Why would you call me that?" The man's face was genuinely befuddled now, his brow crinkled and a quirk to the full lips. If Grantaire used cliches, he would have said he looked as pretty as a picture. But Grantaire did _not _use cliches. He had been an art student and did not stoop that low. If Bahorel could see him now, he would never let him forget it.

"Because I don't know your name." Grantaire watched the expression of confusion lighten slightly, before it darkened once again, finding another flaw in his reasoning.

"But why Apollo?"

"Have you, by chance read any Greek mythology? Or looked into a mirror?" Grantaire's flippant remark met silence and Grantaire felt his ears go progressively warmer. He cleared his throat brusquely before picking up a cup and a sharpie. "So will you be giving me a name or will I be forced to write Apollo on this cup?"

"Enjolras." The man hadn't taken his eyes of Grantaire's face and he felt himself shrink under such intense scrutiny. The only other person that watched him this closely was Pierre, and it usually did not bode well form him. He kept expecting this man to suddenly make a comment about how he was a nuisance or couldn't even serve coffee properly.

"Bless you." This conversation needed to end soon. Grantaire didn't know how much more he could take of standing so close to this man. He had reached the end of the bedazzled stage and was beginning to work himself into a panic.

A small smile curved into slight dimples and Enjolras opened his mouth again, saying "No, my name is really Enjolras. It's spelled E-N-J-O-L-R-A-S."

Grantaire scribbled the name down as he spelled it. "That'll be right up for you." There must have been something dismissive in his tone, because Enjolras nodded and wandered off to look at the new art series the cafe had put up. Grantaire waited for the coffee to brew and his eyes strayed to the cup, a painful white against the black lettering of a name. Before he could think twice, Grantaire grabbed the cup and uncapped another marker, and began his masterpiece.

"Enjolras?" Grantaire held up the cup of coffee. "I hope I didn't offend you earlier. I wouldn't want the wrath go the gods raining down upon me."

Enjolras quirked his brow and flicked his eyes down to Grantaire's name tag. "And I hope I didn't jump down your throat too much, Grantaire." Enjolras took the cup, a spark flashing as their fingers brushed and their eyes locked yet again in an inexplicable exchange that seemed to stretch the millisecond it was held into an eternity. He raised an eyebrow and Grantaire quickly let go, pretending to busy himself with the cash register as Enjolras' footsteps made their way to the door.

"Thank you," Enjolras called over the tinkling of the bell and the momentary burst of noise from the outside world. Grantaire looked up and waved awkwardly, watching him go, the silhouette of red and black fading into the crowd of people bustling through the streets, but growing stronger and clearer in his mind's eye. He still felt his fingers tingling and the back of his neck was most definitely flushed red. He hurried to open a few windows, feeling warm, his clothing too constricting, his apron a shackle to the disappointment he was to himself, to Pierre, to his family, even to Enjolras, whom he had only just met. He collapsed into a chair, his legs giving out. He thought of what Enjolras' reaction would be in seeing the quick doodle of Apollo on a chariot that he had done on his cup. Maybe he wouldn't even notice it. That was the most likely outcome.

He took a moment to assess the battle. He had been a general jerk, or at least somewhat irritating and perhaps flirtatious. Just as the other baristas. And while Enjolras had not thrown his advances back in his face or answered curtly, as he had with the others, he had not reciprocated. Had he even known that Grantaire had been flirting? Perhaps it had gone over his head. After all, he was probably thinking about his "far left social justice group." Grantaire smirked at his recollection of Enjolras' dark scowl accenting the high brow and smooth cheekbones. The fact that Enjolras had not reciprocated Grantaire's flirtations, left him in a precarious situation. He had not been rejected, which would have been the easiest way out. Instead, he had told him his name, a dangerous piece of information. With that, Grantaire could almost complete his fantasies of the two of them, could have a name to moan when he pleased himself in the shower. But most dangerous of all, having a name made it all the easier for Pierre to discover his dirty little secret. Perhaps because he was awash in a glow of happiness, or perhaps because he was surrounded by sunlight and the newest 1975 song, but that thought did not bother him as much as it should have.

As he sat in the soft chair, bathed in sunlight and wrapped in the memory of his name on Enjolras' lips, lost in the fantasy of imagining this life, Grantaire couldn't bring himself to care about the peril his treacherous heart was suffering. For he had just seen a guardian angel.

* * *

Enjolras was incredibly late in meeting Combeferre and Courfeyrac, but something about that barista, Grantaire, had seemed so intriguing. He was carefree and joking as the other baristas had been, but he had a wit more intelligent than the others it would seem. References to Greek literature and culture? No one had ever tried to pick him up like that before. He smiled slightly at Grantaire's baffled expression when he had gone on his little ABC rant, but then thought that this man could be interested in the group. He seemed intelligent, and he could truly use a few more people to help him out. Also, the coffee he had made was excellent, possibly the best cup of coffee he'd had in weeks. This was also a great draw to him in Enjolras' head. Who knew what other talents this man could give to the cause?

Enjolras burst into the flat that he shared with Courfeyrac, grateful for the warm blast of air that greeted him, painful on his cheeks and nose. "I'm here sorry I'm late!" Enjolras called as he took off his coat and kicked off his shoes. He headed towards the kitchen.

"About time," Courfeyrac said. "I was just telling Combeferre that maybe we should put in a movie and cuddle on the couch because I am lonely and you had yet to show up. But I guess Combeferre's sacrifice towards the greater good won't have to take place today. I'm sorry Combeferre, I know just how much you were looking forward to it." Courfeyrac touched Combeferre's knee and Combeferre smiled slightly over his book before closing it and taking his glasses off to rub them clean. This was a tactic he used often when he wanted to remind a person that he had other things to do and could easily leave if they didn't stop wasting his time. Enjolras winced.

"I'm sorry, I stopped to get coffee and it took awhile. I should have let you know." Combeferre smiled and waved his hand slightly. All was forgiven as usual.

"Is that a number on your cup?" Courfeyrac asked, sitting up straighter and leaning in to look. Combeferre lifted an eyebrow at Enjolras, and glanced at Courfeyrac, who was inches away from the cup.

Enjolras lifted his cup in surprise and what met his eyes caused him to chuckle slightly before breaking into a full belly laugh. Combeferre and Courfeyrac never fully understood why the Greek looking man in a chariot had set off Enjolras in such a manner, but Combeferre later pinned it on the coffee. Courfeyrac did not give a reason, but he had a mischievous glint to his eye that suggested that he had his own suspicions and that he was going to get to the bottom of it.


	2. I Work Out

A week trudged by, agonizing minute by minute. Every so often, Grantaire would find himself staring out the window, arms wrapped around himself and with what he was sure was a doofy smile wrapped around his face. Sometimes he felt like he was floating. Other times, he felt that he was at the bottom of the abyss, rocky walls towering to unseen heights and him hopeless to get out of the gloom that surrounded him. Whether he was floating or sinking, he seemed out of sync with the world. The world passed so slowly as thoughts and ideas raced through his mind and the clock ticked in increasing increments of time.

Pierre had no doubt noticed that Grantaire was off. He had probably put it down on the punch that Grantaire had gotten a few weeks ago. Whatever he thought, he remained somewhat quiet, but managed to show his concern by making the coffee in the morning, hiding the razors, and keeping an eye on their supply of alcohol. Grantaire caught Pierre's eyes on him sometimes, felt the worry and pity that radiated from him when he saw the circle under Grantaire's eyes darken, his coffee go untouched. Grantaire's thoughts were scattered, but he knew that he had to push forward if he didn't want this upward spiral to plunge him deeper into depression than he's ever been. He had been enjoying this period of relatively few panic attacks and peace at home, even if it was filled with a different kind of tension. Grantaire was glad for the moments when he was home alone, when he had time to himself without having to worry about how to behave in a way that would keep Pierre's curiosity and suspicion low.

In the morning he would get up after a fitful night of sleep, his dreams haunted with lingering touches and streaks of light highlighting blond eyelashes. He awoke beside a mop of dark strands that had no curl, and tried to forget. Yet, as his eyes closed, he couldn't help but wonder at his situation. He didn't understand this obsession with a man he had barely met, yet he forced it aside in Pierre's presence. The alarm would go off at seven am sharp. Grantaire would go through the motions of groaning and slamming his alarm to convince Pierre that all was normal and shuffle towards the shower. The shower was unneeded, as he was already awake, but he had to stick to a routine for Pierre and his own sanity. He would towel off and find his least tattered and worn pieces of clothing to wear before wolfing down some toast and chugging coffee. He would head off to work, walking briskly through the tiny winding streets that took him to the Musain, where he held the prestigious position of barista. He would then work all morning pouring coffee, flirting for tips and caught between wanting to see Enjolras again and wanting to disappear from the earth if he walked in. After five hours of tense apprehension, he was free to go. He usually ran errands, went to the gym, cleaned and cooked in the afternoon, making everything perfect for when Pierre arrived him, hoping that it would take the edge off of Pierre's moodiness and occupy his hands and mind because he found that idleness only made things worse. The only way to continue was to push through.

The most stressful part of his day was the long hours at work, waiting and wondering if Enjolras would show up for his overly caffeinated coffee. However, the moments Pierre was at home came at a close second. Grantaire spent all evening hoping the dinner was good, wincing at every out of character comment he made, focusing deliberately on making his movements normal, his actions predictable and to avoid raising suspicion. Grantaire hated every godforsaken second of it. The worst times, by far, were when Pierre wanted to have sex. Grantaire could think of a million other things he wanted to do, and none of them involved Pierre. Unfortunately, his life before Enjolras had a lot of sex in it, which meant that in order to keep things as normal as possible, he had to follow through with sex. Which isn't to say that his body wasn't somewhat willing, he just lacked the spirit. He definitely wasn't into it anymore. Every time he curled his hands in Pierre's hair, he found short rough brown hair instead of soft golden curls. He expected azure eyes and instead found hazel, and stubble where it should be smooth. Grantaire had to stop himself from moaning Enjolras' name as he pictured Enjolras instead of Pierre, touching him, fucking him, loving him. He had to keep his guard up even more than usual in these moments where there was absolutely nothing between him and Pierre and he could see every inch of Grantaire and hear everything he said. It made sex into a chore rather than the enjoyable activity it was before.

It was always the moments afterwards, where their breathing slowed that Grantaire felt his lowest. Pierre rolled over and fell asleep immediately, while Grantaire stared up at the ceiling, sticky, unmoving, and repulsed by himself. His skin was sticky, covered in drying cum and he felt the urge to get up and scrub his skin until he had washed Pierre out of himself, until the image of Enjolras didn't make him want to scream his lungs out, until his skin was stained red with blood. As if that wasn't enough, he was picturing Enjolras the entire time that Pierre was moving on top of him, trying to reach out and imagine Enjolras' moans, his catching of breath, the occasional gasp he'd make. And that was the worst part, he was having all sorts of sexual fantasies with Enjolras while having sex with his boyfriend. He wanted to cry, so he scrubbed a hand over his face, trying to forget exactly how fucked up he truly was before he started having a panic attack right next to Pierre, which would be difficult to explain because Grantaire hadn't had a panic attack about sex since their first time.

Grantaire forced himself to take deep, shuddering breaths as quietly as he could as he took stock of his situation. He was hopelessly obsessed with another man, who, by now had probably forgotten him and his ridiculously childish drawing on the cup. Yet he couldn't get him out of his mind, and what scared him even more is that he didn't want to forget _anything_ about Enjolras. As he lay there, still flushed from having sex with his long-term abusive boyfriend, he was mooning over Enjolras, and he didn't see any way that he could conceivably stop. He was barreling down a one way road, and he could see the wreckage ahead, but he had no way of stopping the car in time and his stomach lurched at the thought of what would happen if Pierre found out what was truly happening in Grantaire's life, instead of the vaguely amusing stories he told about customers at the café. A secret like Enjolras could land him a black eye for sure, perhaps even a broken nose, and Grantaire isn't particularly fond of broken noses, his was already crooked from the multiple times it had been broken and put back together by unprofessional hands.

The idea of leaving occurred to him for the umpteenth time that week. But he pushed it aside quickly. Grantaire had nowhere to go, no one that he would feel comfortable burdening with the weight of his life and his problems. Bahorel, though a good sparring buddy, seemed too jovial to want a depressed dropout such as himself, let alone Joly and Bossuet, who were wrapped up in their own world for Grantaire to have the heart to intrude on them. Not to mention the fact that he could be in more danger if he left and exposed the secret of his unhappiness than if he stayed here and remained mute and as normal as he could. Pierre had a possessive streak the size of his ego, that is, bigger than the Gulf of Mexico. Perhaps that is what had endeared Grantaire to him in the beginning, he was so used to no one caring about him, that as soon as someone grew possessive of him, he fell to his knees in wonder. Grantaire decided that he would stay for now, until he saw an opportunity to get out. He knew that the chances that he actually acted on this opportunity were slim to none, but the thought helped him drift off that night, as it had the many nights that he contemplated his own dark situation.

The next day seemed to pass relatively faster than those of the past few weeks, and Grantaire felt his heart lighten as he walked through the crisp, sunny air to the gym to meet Bahorel for some boxing. Grantaire was looking forward to letting out some tension that had been building behind his shoulders and to spend time with someone that wasn't Pierre or himself, because that had become more dangerous of late. He stepped inside the warmth of the gym and felt himself relax a little at the familiar atmosphere, swinging his bag off his shoulder as his eyes found Bahorel.

The general reaction to Bahorel was a mix of surprise and terror. While he didn't tower over everyone else, he had an aura that spelled dangerous, most likely coming from the muscles that bulged out of his shirt. Dreds hung halfway down his back and he often wore tank tops that revealed the numerous tattoos that ran up his arms. This wouldn't be as much of a problem if Bahorel weren't black, but he was, and unfortunately people generally assumed that Bahorel was a violent gang member. Grantaire knew all about how he volunteered at the local animal shelter and took on cases for what people could afford lawyers when he could. He even had many drunken stories that included Bahorel in drag sobbing over a stray kitten in a back alleyway. Grantaire met Bahorel back when he had tried his hand at college, when Bahorel skipped a lecture in order to go to a petting zoo that visited campus. Grantaire had been absolutely baffled at the large black man with dreds who seemed to be fascinated with a camel's hair. Bahorel had seen him staring and casually started a conversation about how this guy he knew was a camel trader and once he had been allowed to ride one and by the end of the story, Grantaire had tears of laughter running down his cheeks. They agreed to meet up again and soon discovered that they enjoyed a lot of the same things: boxing, drinking, shirking their duties, and raising widespread mayhem. They were the kind of friends that rarely had serious conversations about their problems or their separate lives, they seemed to communicate through gestures and boxing alone. Grantaire felt close to Bahorel, and loved him like a brother, but he could never see himself telling Bahorel about his relationship with Pierre and his newest mess of problems that lay under the label of Enjolras.

Bahorel caught Grantaire's eye and grinned crookedly, revealing impossibly white teeth. Grantaire knew for a fact that Bahorel used whitening strips copiously in order to preen more in front of the mirror. He was already in his workout clothes and slammed his locker shut as Grantaire approached. "You look like shit, R." Bahorel always opened with light insults; it was his thing; yet Grantaire sensed an underlying sincerity that cut a little close to his chest, and he attempted to shrug it off with his usual cheer.

"You're just jealous Bahorel."

"No, seriously, are you sleeping?"

"Actually, I am having tons of sex, so joke's on you." Grantaire added a little laugh to the end of his statement, hoping it sounded flippant enough to pass as a regular Grantaire remark. Bahorel still looked uncertain, so he shouldered past him saying, "Let's go loser." Grantaire didn't look back to see if Bahorel followed.

The session that followed was brutal. It had been awhile since Grantaire had boxed with an actual person rather than a bag that suffered his outbursts of frustration. There was a different feel of meeting warm flesh, meeting the resistance of bones beneath his fists. In no time he had sweat burning his eyes and slicking his skin, but he carried on doggedly, knowing that he needed the release, needed to know that he too could cause others pain, that he could smack others around a bit. He knew Bahorel could handle it; he had taken worse before. They were at it for a long time, lost in the flow of their bodies moving together, eyeing for opening, bringing their arms up swiftly to block the fist that threatened to touch base, the occasional muffled noise of surprise when they weren't fast enough. Grantaire enjoyed boxing deeply, tasting salt on his lips, feeling the sweat drip down his back, hardening his muscles and dodging until his legs were unsteady underneath him. He didn't know how long they went until Bahorel pulled back.

They stood for a few moments, gazing at each other, inspecting the damage as their chests heaved and their sweat began to dry into the grudgingly welcomed sticky chill on their skin. Bahorel eyed him warily, before lifting his arm to inspect a red blow on his ribcage. "Shit, R. You could have just told me that you were in a bad mood. I would have been more careful."

Grantaire didn't really have an answer for that, so he shrugged nonchalantly and rolled his head back, stretching his neck out. He walked over to the bench and grabbed his towel, rubbing the sweat off his face as best he could before slinging it over his shoulders. He turned back to Bahorel and stiffened immediately. _It couldn't be._ But it was. Of course he would be here, he was everywhere, he had even invaded Grantaire's mind. He was relatively certain that this wasn't an apparition because he was _talking_ and _laughing_ with Bahorel and Bahorel didn't seem like the type to have hallucinations, and the possibility that they had the very same one would be impossibly slim. On the other hand, the possibility that Enjolras could look that hot was completely out of his range of imagination. He had imagined all sorts of things before, but he had never imagined this. He was toned, not bulky, his biceps graceful as he gestured with his hands, his ab muscles flexing slightly with each movement. Grantaire caught himself staring at the muscular shoulder rotating and the line of dusky hair that led down the to the waistband of his workout shorts, perfectly framed by hipbones that could cut stone, let alone his own last shreds of dignity. He swallowed dryly.

Grantaire realized at that point that he had been standing stock still for a socially unacceptable period of time, especially when gazing at someone. Panicking, he frantically went over his options. He could hardly go talk to Enjolras, who had probably forgotten him, yet he couldn't leave without Bahorel because he would get suspicious. So he went with the third option, which was also the worst. He stood there indecisively, arguing between the two, his anxiety slowly rising up his throat, threatening to choke him as he stood there, feet away from his- his- whatever Enjolras was. He forced himself to take deep, shuddering breaths as quietly as he could, hoping to escape the notice of those around him. He wanted to unglue his eyes from Enjolras' frame, for therein lay his problem, yet his eyes would not obey him. They sought out his graceful forearms, his slightly damp pectoral muscle. Grantaire was so, so, screwed.

Bahorel had to call his name three times before Grantaire realized that he was actually doing so. Flushing hotly, Grantaire pretended that he hadn't spent the last five minutes checking out Enjolras' goods, and walked over to where Bahorel and Enjolras were chatting. He felt Enjolras' eyes sweeping over him, from head to toe, as he made his way over, and he remembered every single negative comment Pierre had made about Grantaire's body. There was the jagged, raised scar on his bicep from his time on the streets (as well as the broken nose that never set properly), some self-harm scars running up his forearms, his hips that were too broad, his overall shortness and occasional chub, not to mention that he was hairy and sweaty from his workout. He felt low, looking up at this superhuman, who, though it was evident that he had been working out, looked as if he had just stepped out of some fashion magazine. Probably Men's Health judging from those hipbones. He was distinctly aware of his tattered shorts that were slightly to small for him, and his rat's nest of hair was matted with sweat.

"Grantaire, this is Enjolras. He's the one who leads that activist group that I told you about." Bahorel seemed oblivious to Grantaire's discomfort and turned to Enjolras. "I've been trying to convince him to come to the meetings, but he always gets out of it somehow, begging some sort of excuse. He's good at that sort of thing." Enjolras' eyes hadn't left Grantaire, and he felt the full weight of those deep blue eyes that reminded Grantaire that he still wanted to see the Mediterranean before he died. He prayed desperately to any god out there that they would stop Bahorel from telling the drunk stories, especially the one-"You know the drunk story about the peas and the camel and drag racing? Yeah, this is that Grantaire."

Enjolras quirked his eyebrow. Apparently, he_ had_ heard that story. Damn Bahorel. Damn him to the deepest depths of hell and then another step down. "Nice to meet you Grantaire. I must say that I didn't have the artistic barista pinned down as the type to drag race camels."

Grantaire laughed, wincing internally as it came out too loud. "Yeah, that's me. Always the surprise." _Just get through this conversation Grantaire and then you can go home, curl into your bed and not move for a few hours. Maybe even have a good cry._

Enjolras stuck his hand out. "Enjolras, in case you couldn't remember. I know I had to spell it out last time, but I think we can skip that this time." He smile quizzically and Grantaire hated him in that moment. How was he so unaffected by others? By his surroundings? How was he so confident and charming and beautiful and a reminder of everything that Grantaire was not? Grantaire felt the ice cold sweat on his skin as reminded yet again of all his flaws, staring at the hand that stretched into the neutral space between them. His rage subsided instantly, replaced with a hollow feeling in his chest. Slowly, wonderingly, he reached out, belatedly thinking that his hand was clammy. Enjolras' palm was slightly rough and it sent a delightful tingle to Grantaire's navel. Enjolras' grip was strong and Grantaire found himself responding, shaking his hand. He held on for a fraction too long, unable to tear his hand away, but Enjolras didn't seem to notice, his gaze expectantly on Grantaire's face. Oh right, they introducing themselves formally.

"Grantaire." His voice came out hoarse and he cleared his throat awkwardly. "Grantaire," he repeated, his voice stronger and slightly more normal this time around. "Though everyone calls me sexy." Grantaire groaned internally. His mouth ran away from him too often. He really should learn how to control that habit.

Enjolras scanned him again, openly. "I see." His tone was curt and brisk, worlds away from his earlier and friendlier tone. He turned to Bahorel and changed the subject. "So the meeting will be at the same time as usual. I have to get going, I think that I'm running late to yet another meeting with Courfeyrac but I'm sure he'll find some way to occupy himself. He's quite the expert. Say hi to Feuilly for me and remind him to look into the minimum wage stuff I sent him. I know he's busy, but he could help a lot of people."

Bahorel nodded, a grin splitting his face. "I'll remind him, but he'll only yell at me."

Enjolras seemed to agree with Bahorel's conclusion and nodded matter-of-factly. He turned to Grantaire, a polite expression on his face. "I hope you consider coming to one of the meetings. Bahorel has told me that you like designing things and have an interest in art. We could use some help with posters and flyers. Since most of us are law students, we are terrible with creativity. Think about it." He added the last gently, before he was gone. Grantaire most definitely did not check out his ass as he walked away. And Bahorel did not nudge him and raise a suggestive eyebrow.

Later Bahorel programmed Enjolras' number in Grantaire's phone "just in case" and sent him a text with information about the next meeting. Grantaire left in a storm of curses and more frustrated than when he came to the gym. Bahorel watched him go, his teasing smile slowly fading to a worried crease between his eyebrows.

* * *

Courfeyrac had indeed found a method of entertaining himself. It consisted of baking cupcakes with Combeferre. Although, Combeferre was, admittedly, not doing much baking. He was reading the cookbook from front to back, as Courfeyrac attempted to read the instructions from one of the pages that Combeferre had already passed. This led to a minor scuffle, which had left the majority of the cookie batter anywhere but the door. Courfeyrac was just suggesting licking off the batter and Combeferre was blushing as Enjolras slammed the doorway loudly, announcing his presence at the sickeningly repressed lovefest.

"Do you know Grantaire, Bahorel's boxing art friend?" Enjolras dived straight in, not bothering to greet either of them as they shuffled awkwardly away from each other.

"I've heard of him, but I've never met him. Though we'd get along really well from what I've heard with the racing camels…." Courfeyrac trailed off thoughtfully, his eyes in the distance, most likely imagining midnight escapades on the hairy and humped beasts.

"About the same for me. Though perhaps I'd get along with him for different reasons." Combeferre added with a wry grin.

"I just met him," Enjolras announced.

"_What?_" Courfeyrac had jumped off of his chair, a fire in his eyes. "Before me? I really must get out more. I am offended that Enjolras met someone before me. Combeferre, my honor is at stake. I demand that you challenge him to a duel."

"I hardly see you as a damsel in distress Courfeyrac." Combeferre straightened his glasses as he met Enjolras' eye.

"I demand a chess match at the very least," Courfeyrac insisted.

"Courfeyrac-"

"Excuse me, but I was talking before you two started flirting," Enjolras interrupted and was rewarded with a silence as other two fumbled for words. "Thank you. Now, I just asked because there was something off about the guy."

"What do you mean? Creepy off? Going to kill you in your sleep kind of off?" Combeferre said, as Courfeyrac began scraping cookie dough off the counter absent-mindedly.

Enjolras struggled to put his thoughts into words. "No, he seemed like an ok guy, it was just with the drinking story, I imagined another Bahorel but it turned out to be that barista that drew on my cup of coffee a few weeks ago-"

"Wait, that was Grantaire?" Courfeyrac had straightened in his seat and gripped Combeferre's arm.

"Yes, Courf, pay attention. Anyway, I expected someone like Bahorel and he does box and drink and he has tattoos, but I got this feeling that he was holding back you know? I thought he was kind of acting? And he acted all weird around me. I don't know. Do you know anything else about him?" Enjolras' tone was bewildered and the faces of his companions betrayed their own confusion.

"Sorry, Enjolras, I don't know anything about him," Combeferre answered. Courfeyrac made a sound of agreement and nodded, belatedly realizing that he was still clutching Combeferre's arm and letting go hastily. "Why?" Combeferre added curiously.

Enjolras shrugged, turning away to make himself some more coffee. Combeferre dropped the subject, but the house was filled with a strange tension that night as their eyes followed each move that someone else made.


	3. Curiosity Killed the Cat

For the tenth time that day, Grantaire found himself staring at Bahorel's text message informing him of the meeting of the Amis that night. After a moment of silent cursing, he quickly shoved it into his pocket, hoping that his traitorous hands would forget about the information that weighed down his pocket, stretching his awareness to that place and time that he knew he could see Enjolras. With trembling fingers, he finished wiping down the counter that had been abandoned in his useless staring contest with his phone. He stubbornly refused to acknowledge the electric thrill that jolted his stomach at the thought of seeing Enjolras again, because he wasn't going to go. He had to stay away from Enjolras. He was dangerous.

Grantaire was already in a shitty situation. He couldn't drag Enjolras into it, not only because of his pride, but the risk of Grantaire becoming utterly destroyed under the pressure of both Pierre and Enjolras. Enjolras would be sickened by Grantaire's abusive relationship. Pierre would be sure to take out his anger at Grantaire's unstable emotions quite often. On Grantaire. And Grantaire wasn't sure which was worse. There was the deep shame curling in his belly, the heaviness of knowing that he was in an abusive relationship and not worth saving. He didn't know how he could handle Enjolras' shock and horror at his discovery of Pierre's abuse, but he didn't want to anger Pierre either. The only solution was to stay far, far away from that red and gold silhouette that haunted his subconscious. Giving in would only make it worse.

Somehow he made it through the rest of his shift without pulling out his phone. He mostly did this my doodling on napkins behind the counter to pass the time, but unfortunately found that his napkins comprised of arching eyebrow, curls masking wide set eyes and slender hands that were much to familiar to Grantaire's memory for his comfort. He quickly threw them in the garbage, disregarding the urge to cast one lingering glance over the inky lines that converged to make a face that Grantaire couldn't comprehend. Enjolras should not have seeped into his veins so quickly, should not already be bursting out of him. Grantaire should not be able to draw the quirk of those full lips without even realizing it. He shouldn't; but he did, and it made his hands tremble with a kind of desperation that he had only ever acquainted with alcohol. But this shaking wasn't a craving for alcohol and Grantaire knew it, and the thought made his stomach lurch and his throat burned as he kept the wetness from his eyes.

He retrieved his coat and left, walking briskly through the windy streets of Paris, steadfastly ignoring the thumping of his heart and the nauseous twisting of his gut as he was reminded yet again that he had not had enough alcohol today. He almost turned at a flash of blonde curls in his peripheral vision, but restrained the urge, forcing himself to breathe normally and to quicken his steps as he pulled his coat closer to him, wrapping himself protectively from the image of Enjolras in these very streets, leading his own life, a life that Grantaire would never allow himself to know. Grantaire kept his head down, partly to hide his face from the nipping wind, but also to watch himself place one foot in front of the other, his ratty converse making their way unsteadily over the uneven cobblestones.

Grantaire found his feet wandering through the park near his apartment, enjoying the weak sunlight filtering it's way through the bare tree branches, his steps crunching vibrant leaves underfoot. The air was crisp, with the teasing bite of the oncoming winter, and Grantaire smiled into his scarf. Grantaire enjoyed the fall, the graceful descent into death complimented his mindset, his moods. There was nothing more satisfying than seeing a red leaf fall, twirling in its last twitches of agony, towards the cold hard ground. It was innately satisfying and beautiful in a morbid way that fascinated Grantaire. He enjoyed the musky smell that carried a hint of apple and smoky scent emitted from chimney tops.

Grantaire found a bench to sit on, and let himself enjoy these few moments of peace. Things had been tense at home and at work. Grantaire felt eyes on him everywhere, and it was a luxury to have a few moments to himself. He perked up at this opportunity to relax, to engage in one of his favorite activities-people watching. As a person who dabbled in drawing and painting occasionally, he found himself fascinated with human beings. Not only their clothing, their gestures, their actions, but seeing the great diversity that came to a certain place for various reasons. There were young and old, students and businessmen, the occasional musician and someone working on their laptop or reading. Grantaire relished in watching these people, picking up on their tiny idiosyncrasies. There was a lady who ran by every afternoon at two, blasting Fall Out Boy so loud that Grantaire could hear the familiar chords every time she ran by. There was the old couple who came every week, always on the same bench, but with different books. The man was going through biographies; the woman was reading young adult fiction. Grantaire recognized a few titles. Sometimes he pulled out a cigarette, enjoying the languorous drag and the swirling patterns of smoke. Other times he would just sit and watch, or bring a book to read.

Only once or twice, had he brought a piece of paper and allowed himself to do some sketching. Grantaire found that he was most at peace when he was absorbed in art. He hardly noticed how dark the world around him was, hardly felt the pounding headache, almost forgot the apartment that stood waiting for him, a stranger that he almost knew most likely wondering where he was. Today, Grantaire just watched the people pass by, smiling as he overheard some conversations, frowning as he heard others. He tipped his head back on the bench, closing his eyes. The breeze ruffled his hair, playfully tugging curls over his head. He was sure to have terribly messy hair when he got home.

Slowly, the shade of the tree behind him crept up to overtake him and he sighed heavily, deciding it was time to get back to the apartment that he dreaded. He stood to go back, having almost forgotten the extra weight of the phone in his pocket, but being betrayed by the fingers that slipped into his pocket to softly caress it, checking that it was still there, almost as if it were a lifeline. As he hurried to his flat, he felt his walls come back up, and forced himself to take deep breaths, placing a false calm on his exterior that he didn't quite understand. But Grantaire had spent years on the streets, he knew when to put up an act, and he could put on a damn good one.

"Where have you been?" Pierre asked as soon as the door shut behind him. He didn't sound angry, but that was worse. Pierre was only ever deadly calm when he was the most angry. He persecuted Grantaire with a cold efficiency that chilled Grantaire to the bone. There was never a warning when the abuse came.

Grantaire forced himself to act normally, taking off his coat and scarf to hang them up, before replying. "It was a nice day, so I went for a walk in the park." Pierre had never been angry with Grantaire going for a walk, though he sometimes mentioned that it was a waste of time that he could be using more "constructively," to use his exact wording.

"Well, I was wondering where you were. You should have let me know that you weren't going to be home for a while." Pierre's voice was conciliatory, tinged with worry. Grantaire almost believed his sincerity, until he saw the ice in Pierre's eyes. It wasn't about Grantaire's wellbeing. It was about Pierre's dominance. Grantaire pretended he didn't know, lowering his eyes in what Pierre took as a submissive gesture. "I'm going to be gone tonight, there's a work gathering."

Grantaire nodded. Pierre had these work gatherings relatively often. Grantaire was never allowed to go because Pierre would be embarrassed to introduce his boyfriend, the barista with no future. Sometimes Grantaire got the sneaking suspicion that Pierre was cheating on him. He told himself that he didn't care, that he knew their relationship was normal, that he wanted Pierre to spend less time with him anyway because Pierre made him nervous. But no matter what he told himself, it still hurt on those nights when he didn't come home until the early hours of the morning, smelling slightly of alcohol and stealing into bed like a child caught out of bed. It didn't change the fact that his cold and empty bed seemed to press itself around him, strangling him, or the fact that by the end of the night his pillow was wet and he had spent half the night tidying up to distract himself from the barren loneliness that stretched deep inside of him.

Grantaire occupied himself with tedious household chores, trying to keep his hands busy as Pierre got ready for the night, showering, shaving, dressing carefully and double checking himself in the mirror. He determinedly paid no attention to Pierre's preening and even less to the fact that he had left his phone in his coat pocket. Pierre eventually left, with a "I'll be back late; don't wait up," called over his shoulder and the door clicking shut just a little too firmly, betraying Pierre's enthusiasm at leaving Grantaire behind.

Grantaire was left in the hollow flat, wringing his hands as silence settled into the dimness around him. He absentmindedly checked the clock before heading back towards the door and grabbing his coat. He found himself two streets down from his house before realizing that he had even left it. He shook himself, and turned back to his apartment. As he arrived, he saw a familiar figure loitering by his door.

"Bahorel?" Grantaire squinted through the twilight, surprised Bahorel even knew where he lived.

"R! Where have you been? I thought you'd be home, or at least that Pierre would be." Bahorel grinned, clapping Grantiare's shoulder in greeting.

"Nah, he had to go to some work gathering." Grantaire played his voice off as casual, wincing slightly at the sting of Bahorel's hand.

"And he didn't invite you? That was a little rude of him." Bahorel was smiling, but Grantaire knew from his inflection that Bahorel wasn't happy. Bahorel had never been a huge fan of Pierre, thinking that Grantaire could do much better, and that was most likely their only bone of contention.

"It's fine. I was looking forward to the flat to myself. Why are you here? Don't you have that meeting?"

"I'm picking you up, loser. We have to run cause we are going to be late." Bahorel grabbed Grantaire's arm and started pulling him quickly down the sidewalk as Grantaire's brain struggled to keep up with Bahorel's far-fetched explanations.

"Bahorel, I'm not going!"

"Why not? I know you're curious." Bahorel was still marching deliberately down the street, but he had to do less pulling now that Grantaire's legs had caught up to the task.

"Because! First of all Pierre doesn't know. Secondly, I'd rather not involve myself in something I find to be utter bullshit, and thirdly I don't actually want to go." Grantaire's voice was firm. He couldn't have Pierre finding out about this.

"Ok, well fuck Pierre. He doesn't control you Grantaire. What's the worst thing that could happen if he found out?"

Grantaire kept silent, unwilling to look at Bahorel, because if he did, he would break down and tell Bahorel. And he could _not_ do that. Grantaire was tough, and he didn't want Bahorel's pity.

"Just don't tell him, man. What he doesn't know won't kill him. He doesn't get back until late right? Just get home before he does and you'll be fine." Bahorel's tone was soft, and Grantaire hated it, but he did concede that Bahorel had a point there.

"Fine. I'll go. Just this once, Bahorel. This can't be a regular thing." Grantaire's statement sounded week, even to his own ears, but he pretended that he was fine and continued to walk beside Bahorel, discreetly putting some distance between them, as if not touching him would conceal his thoughts from Bahorel. The remainder of the walk was silent, the muffled sound of their feet hitting the pavement only broken by the occasional sound of a rumbling car or distant bursts of conversation.

The meeting was located in the Café Musain, a few streets down from the café where Grantaire spent his mornings serving people. It was small, but Grantaire had been there a few times and knew that the food was decent, even if their selection of alcohol left something to be desired. It was cozy inside, somewhat cluttered, but with a homely feel. Bahorel led Grantaire to the back room, where a conglomeration of people was mingling around the room. There looked to be about ten people there, all in their twenties. Grantaire took a table towards the back and Bahorel joined him.

Grantaire had spotted Enjolras as soon as he had walked into the room. His curls shone in the electrical light as he organized papers and files on the table in front of him. He was flanked by two other men, who seemed to be flirting over his head. Enjolras was oblivious to this as he scanned the room with his azure gaze. Their eyes met and Enjolras smiled slightly at him. Grantaire felt his hands dampen against the beer that Bahorel had given him. He gave what he hoped was a smile, but feared it was more of a grimace. Then, he dragged his eyes away, to look anywhere but at Enjolras' penetrating stare.

"Boy, you got it bad." Bahorel interrupted Grantaire's staring match with his beer bottle, his voice lowered and slightly teasing. Grantaire punched Bahorel's shoulder.

"Shut the fuck up man. You don't know anything."

"Don't be an idiot Grantaire. I have known you for a while and I'm just worried about you ok?" Bahorel's brow was furrowed, concern in his eyes. Grantaire dropped his gaze.

"Well, it's none of your business," Grantaire muttered as he brought the bottle to his lips. He hated the necessity of being on his own, of lying to Bahorel, who he considered a brother, but some things were better left alone. He pulled his defensive barriers closer around him.

"Just be careful," Bahorel said softly. Grantaire didn't respond, glaring at the scratches on the tabletop as if they had personally offended him.

Enjolras stood, calling attention to himself with a clearing of the throat. Grantaire kept his gaze down, refusing to look at the figure that commanded the room and Grantaire's sanity it would appear. Then Enjolras began to speak. He was impassioned, he was glorious, he was the sun. In that moment, Grantaire knew he was lost. He didn't believe in anything that Enjolras said, couldn't understand that Enjolras believed he could change things, couldn't comprehend how he overlooked the basic components of humanity: greed, apathy, hate. And yet, before he had realized it he had raised his eyes to this vision in all his magnificence. Grantaire didn't know how much time passed, but he knew that when Enjolras finished, he was probably gaping at him like a fish. Grantaire quickly lowered his head again, hiding his eyes behind the fringe of dark curls that hung in his face. He started picking the label off of the beer bottle as he listened to Enjolras and his two advisors conclude the business of the meeting, discussing raising awareness and flyers and posters. Eventually Enjolras sat down and started putting his papers away, which seemed to be a universal sign for the end of the meeting, as people got up and started chattering. Grantaire noticed that he was getting some curious glances, and hurried to make his way out of the door, deciding he would apologize to Bahorel for leaving him at their next boxing session.

Grantaire sighed in relief at the chilly night air, feeling his shoulders relax after the tension of the past few hours, between Pierre, Bahorel, and Enjolras. Grantaire fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a cigarette. He paused on the sidewalk to light it and took his first drag, gazing up at the glittering stars above him. He jumped slightly as a voice cut through his reverie. "Those are bad for you, you know."

Grantaire knew immediately that Enjolras was speaking to him. He didn't turn around; he just waited for Enjolras to catch up, measuring his breaths against Enjolras' steadily approaching footsteps. He deliberately took another drag, attempting to calm his nerves, but he could feel his heart pounding in his ears. "I know," he answered Enjolras belatedly, not taking his eyes off of the heavens, somewhat incredulous that Enjolras had desired his company.

"I'm surprised you came. Glad of course, but I hadn't expected it." Enjolras' tone was casual, almost practiced in its ease.

Grantaire huffed a laugh. "Couldn't stay away, Antinous. You're light draws all us cynics, like moths to a flame." He took another drag. Enjolras remained silent at that. Grantaire felt his hot gaze on his face, but he forced himself to continue gazing at the stars. He eventually finished his cigarette and stubbed it under his foot. "I should get home." Grantaire wanted to wander the streets, to feel alive in the dead of night, but he knew he had to be home for Pierre.

"Do you mind if I walk you?" Enjolras' voice was unsure, and Grantaire shot a furtive look at his face. It was slightly troubled, but it wasn't aggressive. He seemed sincere enough in his offer.

"It's your funeral." Grantaire started walking again, not bothering to see if Enjolras followed. Enjolras fell into step with him. They were quiet, Grantaire watching their feet slowly come into sync with each other, Enjolras watching their cold puffs of breath mingle. Luckily, or perhaps unluckily, Grantaire's flat wasn't too far off, so he didn't have enough time to decide whether or not he was obligated to make conversation. He was terrified that if he made conversation Enjolras would be bored, but equally terrified that the uncomfortable silence would make Enjolras bored. "This is me," Grantaire said eventually, as he saw the entrance to his building a few feet ahead of him.

"Alright. Thank you for attending the meeting, Grantaire." Enjolras put his hand out to shake, and Grantaire took it hesitantly. Enjolras' hand was warm from his pocket, and Grantaire felt his stiff cold fingers come to life briefly in his grasp.

"Thank you for the escort home, jefe." Grantaire gave a little smirk at Enjolras' narrow-eyed response.

"Hope to see you again soon." Grantaire's heart did _not_ flutter at that. He ignored it completely.

"Good night, Enjolras." Grantaire entered his building and waited until he heard Enjolras' footsteps walking away to climb up the stairs. He collapsed against his door as he shut it and hurried to the window to see if Enjolras was still visible. Enjolras was at the end of the street, under a lamplight with the telltale glow of a lit cigarette between his fingers. His head was dropped back against the lamppost, and Grantaire quickly averted his eyes and forced himself to change out of his clothes and commence his nightly routine.

Grantaire glanced at the lamppost again before shutting the blinds to find the glow of light there empty. He pulled them shut sharply and wondered what he had done in his past life to deserve such a mess. Grantaire flopped on to bed and watched the shadows from the cracks in his blind play on the ceiling. He didn't sleep; his bed remained empty long after the morning sunlight stretched across the barren room.

* * *

Combeferre looked up as Enjolras shut the door to their flat. He was clutching a book and there was a cup of tea sitting on the coffee table beside him. It was half empty. "Where have you been?" Combeferre asked as Enjolras began to shed his coat.

"I talked to Grantaire. Walked him home," Enjolras answered shortly. He sat on the couch next to Combeferre.

"Have you been smoking?" Combeferre asked in surprise, wrinkling his nose.

"Is it that obvious?"

"You reek, Enjolras. Are you ok? You haven't had one in a while." Combeferre put his book down carefully, turning to face Enjolras.

"Yes. I'm fine. I don't know what happened, I just found myself with one in my hand." Enjolras looked down at his hands, hating his moment of weakness.

Combeferre sighed and got up to make Enjolras a cup of tea. He could tell that it was going to be a long night; it had been awhile since Enjolras had a cigarette. Obviously something had triggered it, he just needed to find out what happened. Besides, he hadn't been getting any reading done in the first place, too wound up from the meeting and Courfeyrac's increasingly suggestive comments to focus on the plot. On second thought, Combeferre thought, glancing at the morose Enjolras sitting dejectedly on the lumpy couch, perhaps coffee was a better idea than tea.


End file.
